


baby, breathe (i hear you)

by vincenvanvante



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Angst, Boyfriends, Cheap ramen, Crying, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Woosan, breakdown - Freeform, soft kisses :(, woosan fluff, wooyoung is san’s baby, ‘m bad at tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 14:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18576733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vincenvanvante/pseuds/vincenvanvante
Summary: jung wooyoung was addicted to testing his limits, and sometimes, he pushed too far.





	baby, breathe (i hear you)

 

* * *

 

San jolted awake—the itchy couch scratching the nape of his neck—to the colossal boom of the front door slamming shut. Albeit disoriented, his vision cleared enough to catch the tail end of Yunho wincing painfully and Seonghwa’s flooring glare.

Yunho raised his head to see San slumped in the folds of the couch, blanketed in fuzzy darkness, and blinking blearily in his direction. His features promptly twisted into a state of deeper remorse.

“Sorry, San-ah,” he apologized sincerely. 

A response was not necessary, as Mingi leaned his entire weight against unprepared-Yunho with the intention of yanking off a dirty tennis shoe—it resulted in a pile of tangled limbs on the entry floor.

Ignoring the irritated, “ _Asshat_ ,” hissed into the air, San glanced at the table before him: there laid the unsparing remains of his late dinner. Memories surfaced, of savoring it and then unintentionally falling asleep, _upright_. His neck ached.

The four who just arrived home from a non-mandatory dance practice slowly scattered throughout the dorm, all sluggish footsteps and drooping eyes.

Four.

Not himself or Yeosang, who had returned to the dorms directly after evening rehearsal to eat. Not Hongjoong, who was no doubt holed up in a practice room at KQ, lithe frame bent over and sharp eyes squinting in the artificial light of his laptop screen.

“Jungho-ah,” San called weakly. The younger paused at the foot of the hallway, peeling out of his jacket. 

“He’s still there, isn’t he.”

Jungho’s wary eyes softened. All he could offer San and his sinking heart was silence as he nodded.

**;**

The glass entrance door knocked back into place as San slipped inside the building, worn sneakers scuffing on tile floor. With each step ascending the cement stairs, he forced down the acid worry threatening to choke him.

He was fully aware of what he’d find upstairs.

Because Jung Wooyoung was addicted.

Addicted to that ruthless drive, the hot flash in his chest proving he’d done well. That he’d succeeded. The push, the pull, the reward; that’s why he did it. Sweat hit the ground and his limbs ached and his soul wore down. He sang until he lost his voice, he went to the gym instead of sleeping.

The public saw the product of faultless, flawless talent. The public saw the plentiful fruit of his daily labor.

What the public didn’t see were the early mornings when he arrived back at the dorm, arms heavy and strained from lifting weights, when he’d shower listlessly and then fall into San’s side, still shaking with exertion. The public didn’t see the dieting, the rigorous schedules, the exhaustion, the tears. The public didn’t understand that the foundation of Wooyoung’s dancing—beyond his initial talent—laid behind tinted windows and locked doors. The image of himself that he so desired to personify was barred behind the confines of the mirror.

Jung Wooyoung was addicted to testing his limits, and sometimes, he pushed too far.

San heard— _felt_ —the rumble of the bass before he even entered the hallway adjacent to the practice room. He arrived, swung the door open.

And there, stubborn and relentless, was his baby.

Hair matted to his forehead, thin shirt sticking to the defined planes of his shoulders, forehead glistening and pinched in focus and frustration. Music the group had heard an innumerable amount of times pierced through the space, Wooyoung’s limbs moving deliberately with time. Despite the obvious display of strength, San could spot the weariness seeping into the blonde’s figure, filling the cracks that formed every time he pushed replay.

And there it was: the first misstep. Following the chorus, before the bridge. Wooyoung’s facade seemed to crumble instantly, his features turning dark, movements turning messy with fury. Another misstep there, a pulse hit on the wrong beat. He burned holes into his reflection in the mirror, and he was glaring at himself when he began a section of choreography at the wrong verse.

 _”Fuck!_ ”

The shout reverberated in the room, and San’s heart ached.

Wooyoung struck an aggressive hand through his hair, pulling at it roughly—a coping mechanism—as he stalked toward the speaker to restart the song. San, already having realized his intent, moved.

Wooyoung seemed to recognize the older’s presence for the first time.

“San,” he huffed, as the older was standing before the speaker. Staving him off from his addiction.

“ _San_ —” he spat, but the older’s chest remained in the way.

Wooyoung spun away, hands tangled in his hair again, chest heaving. San followed, steps heavy-laden. 

“Wooyoung-ie,” he tried gently, but before he could form a coherent sentence, the younger was rambling, acrimony laced in the edge of his voice. 

“I swear to _fucking_ god, I am incompetent—”

The lights seemed to dim in reverence to his aggressive tone, the floorboards creaking with every weighted footfall. 

“It’s not hard— _it’s not even hard_ —and we’ve been working on this for _weeks_ —”

San remained silent. The other met his eyes, orbs blazing with an eternal fire. And San knew with that ache burning in his chest that it wasn’t mere anger. It was self-hatred.

“I can’t get the steps down and they’re not even difficult—been practicing for so long, too long. I’m supposed to be the fucking dancer—and if I can’t do that then why the _hell_ am I here.”

He heaved a gasping breath and repeated with just as much force and conviction, “ _Why the hell am I here_ —”

San stepped forward and entrapped him, one arm secured tightly around his back, the other steadying his neck. His cheek was squished against the blonde’s head and he prayed, _god_ he prayed that the reassurance would stomp out the lies plaguing his mind.

Initially, the younger fought wildly, shoving his hands against San’s chest. With helpless tears pooling in his eyes, San only held him tighter.

The pressure was grounding him, bringing him back.

“San,” Wooyoung sputtered weakly, and the older knew: it was a last-ditch effort to maintain his public image—the powerhouse, the sunshine, the free spirit.

But the public wasn’t here. 

The first sob racked the younger’s entire body, his frame shaking against San, shoulders trembling. There were two fists gripping San’s T-shirt mercilessly, tears wetting his skin, noises muffled in his neck. His nose burned with emotion, adjusting his hold on Wooyoung to cradle his head. 

“There you go, Woo,” he muttered into damp hair, pressing his lips to the younger’s forehead. Wooyoung exhaled unevenly.

San rocked leisurely from foot to foot, whispered, “Breathe, baby,” as encouragement. And it took several minutes, but the space was finally quiet save the occasional sniffle. 

**;**

The sweater was yanked from the hanger, leaving the hook to swing precariously on the clothes rack as San eased the closet door shut. Spinning on his heel, he attempted to swallow the uneasy lump in his throat.

Wooyoung stood unmoving in the middle of the bedroom, attention focused in the general direction of the hardwood floor. His eyes were glossed over—desensitized to this part of the process. Breakdown, comforted, up again, work hard, work harder, work the hardest.

Break.

Repeat.

San knew tomorrow, Wooyoung would rise from his bed and have more will than ever to succeed. San also knew Wooyoung needed to understand his worth before the process engulfed him and stripped away everything that made him _him_. 

Under San’s guidance and gentle ministrations, Wooyoung had showered without protest upon arriving back at the dorm. Now, there were stray drops of water dotting his shoulders and chest, water he didn’t care to dry completely.

Now, clean and reduced to the most vulnerable version of himself, San _felt_ the exhaustion radiating from him.

Even as he approached and stood before him, Wooyoung wouldn’t meet his eyes; the former fought back tears for the third time since the practice room.

He fit the sweater over Wooyoung’s head with calm movements, settled the material along his chest, around his waist. And his heart ached. Absentmindedly, he began rubbing the blonde’s arms.

“Woo,” he said softly, tilting his head down a little. He asked, even though he already knew the answer, “Have you eaten yet?”

After a lengthy moment, Wooyoung shook his head. Wet locks of hair hid his eyes.

“Can’t,” he breathed out. Tired.

“Why, baby,” San asked, brushing the hair away from Wooyoung’s forehead.

“Diet,” came the fateful answer. “Managers said I need to be more careful.”

There was a nasty pang in San’s gut, a vicious red flash beneath his eyelids. He spent several seconds leveling out his tone. 

“Woo, you’ve got to eat. Dieting with nutritional, healthy food for a fit body is different than not eating at all.” 

Wooyoung shifted. Tired.

“The managers, San-ah,” he sighed, as if that was a sufficient excuse to avoid sustenance in a state of physical exhaustion.

A beat.

“Fuck the managers.”

And Wooyoung stared, caught off-guard; San rarely cursed and _never_ dared to speak against those who oversaw their group. So he allowed himself to be taken down the chilled hallway to the tiny kitchen, fingers threaded between those of his lover’s hand.

San cooked quickly—and cooking meant not letting the water boil over on the stove and adding seasoning packets to sub-par packages of ramen from the 24/7 convenience store down the street.

Finished, he set an indiscreetly filled-to-the-brim bowl of noodles before the blonde slumped at the table (he brought his own over too because he was nothing if not a supportive boyfriend). 

The tension coiled tightly in Wooyoung’s shoulders seemed to dissipate with every slow bite. For the first time in those early morning hours, San felt his chest loosen a little. 

Here, sitting in front of him, was the boy he was so irrevocably in love with—hair air-dried and fluffy around his ears, clad in navy blue checkered pajama pants and a revolting maroon sweater with a gaping hole in the right armpit.

He was messy and imperfect and worn out and San _loved_ him. 

The couple returned to Wooyoung’s bedroom, and Yeosang was still nowhere to be seen, as was true an hour prior. San knew he probably ended up falling asleep in someone else’s room. He switched on the bedside lamp, bathing the corner in warm light.

“Hey,” he murmured, wrapping his hand around Wooyoung’s waist before the latter could collapse in the bottom bunk. “Listen for a minute?” 

It was an open-ended question, an invitation to discuss it tomorrow before breakfast or following the afternoon rehearsal or during free time instead. Wooyoung simply snaked his hands in the large front pocket of San’s sweatshirt and nodded.

San took in the expectant expression—wide, sleepy eyes, bare face—and felt his insides melting. Internal combustion. He spoke, but in a manner that feigned he had all the time in the world.

“It’s okay to have days like this, Woo,” he began. “It’s alright to slow down because it’s necessary.”

He stopped because he didn’t know how to spin his emotions into words. He was clueless of how to make Wooyoung _understand_ —

Voice catching with passion, he said, “But you are _not_ incompetent. You are _not_ incapable anything we do in this group.”

His hands slid to rest at the small of the younger’s back and he spoke, revealed with a tone of great urgency a secret everyone was aware of—except the one it pertained to.

“And you’re  _here_ because we need you.” 

Wooyoung’s eyes filled with tears and he clenched his jaw, hands reaching to link behind San’s neck.

“We need you, alright?” San repeated. He didn’t know when he got so choked up. “ _I_ need you—” 

“Okay, baby,” Wooyoung interrupted, a plea, raking his hands through San’s hair. “Okay, I hear you.”

The younger nudged his nose against San’s, sniffling. “‘M sorry.”

San made a noise of disapproval, pressing forward. “Never apologize, Woo. You don’t need to.” 

And even though the dim lighting provided a vision impediment and the pair was extremely close in proximity, Wooyoung gazed unfalteringly into San’s eyes. A deep current, a thrum of connection. Vast, transparent windows to the soul in which rested identical tattoos engraved on their hearts:  _I love you_.

The kiss was gentle. Neither pried or pushed, but rather allowed all the faithful promises, all the unrestrained affection, to be passed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until it sunk beneath their skin and became a part of them. The trust, the bond, the confidence would remain—through all of the mornings before sunrise, all of the skipped meals, all of the restless traveling, all of the sleepless nights, all of the exhausting rehearsals. 

San found himself, for the nth time in a short span of hours, observing his boyfriend in all of his faults and all of his indescribable beauty. He reveled silently in the younger’s effortless ability to capture his attention, no matter what stage of the process.

Wooyoung was curled up against the cool wall in the bottom bunk, eyes already drooping shut, but arms waiting for San to join him.

Shuffling in the hallway.

Hongjoong, haggard in appearance with mussed hair and deep eye bags, halted in the doorway. He squinted into the room. 

“Hyung,” San greeted once he stepped away from the bed.

“What’re you still doing awake?” was the elder’s immediate response. Always looking after others, despite the fact he was also awake as the clock approached four in the morning.

“We just got home not too long ago.” San paused to glance at the still figure a few paces away. “He… had a rough night.”

A moment passed in which Hongjoong peered over San’s shoulder and took in the mundane scene. A crease surfaced between his furrowed brow.

“Is he alright?” came the hushed inquiry.

“Yeah. He will be.”

Hongjoong met the younger’s eyes, an entire wordless conversation shared. He shifted.

“Okay,” was his simple response. He adjusted the laptop strap on his shoulder. “Get some sleep, San-ah.”

“You too, hyung. Goodnight.”

In the dark, San fit into the open spaces beside Wooyoung. In the dark, he found the curve of the younger’s waist, the dainty fingers of his hand. He pressed a feather-like kiss to the crown of his head, as to convey everything he refrained from mentioning in the perfect silence.

In the dark, Wooyoung drifted closer to San’s chest. And from there, the seamlessly free-fall into the velvet abyss of sleep.

.

**Author's Note:**

> our boys work so hard for us. don’t forget that ❥
> 
> twitter : @vincenvanvante


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